send this smile over to you
by Vanus Empty
Summary: The Shield crossover. "No matter how much I hate him, I could never hate him more than he hates himself."


Title:

send this smile (over to you)  
**Series:** "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer: **Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Shawn Ryan owns The Shield.  
**Warnings:** Language, implied violence. S3 SPN, post S7 "Family Meeting" The Shield.  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Dean, Sam – Lem, Shane. Vague mentions of others.  
**Rating:** PG-13/T.  
**Other:** ...Uh. It's late? And I couldn't stop writing. ;x Sorry, folks, for my late, late night rambles. I obliterated the meaning of the word "timeline." Enter knowing it does not exist.

* * *

"I've got hunt," Bobby says through the phone, his voice rough and tinny through the line. "Maybe," he adds after a moment.

"Maybe?" Dean asks, cell phone held up to his ear. He gestures for Sam to hand him a piece of paper and a pen. "What do you mean, maybe? You either got a hunt or you don't. You gettin' on in years, Bobby?" He asks teasingly.

Though he couldn't see, he's certain Bobby was rolling his eyes. "Nice, smartass. By maybe, I mean that it's either a ghost or a creep. People say they've seen a man sitting on headstone out at night, but when they show up to investigate, he's gone. Apparently he's been staking out the grave of some poor bastard who died rather nastily."

"How nastily?"

"He got a grenade dropped into his lap."

Dean whistles, eyes wide. Sam blinks at him and he mouths, "grenade on his crotch," and Sam grimaces, covertly crossing his legs. "Yea," Dean says to Bobby, "that is nasty. You think the ghost is of that guy?"

"If it is a ghost, probably." Bobby sighs and Dean frowns.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

Bobby sighs again then explains, "most ghosts who die like that don't stick around their damned _graves_. They go find the son of a bitch who killed them and put _them_ in _their_ graves."

Shrugging his shoulders, Dean mutters under his voice, "never can be simple." Louder, he asks, "Where is this place?"

"Los Angeles, California. Farmington District," Bobby replies promptly, sounding as though he was reading from a page.

"And our maybe ghost?"

"Former detective Curtis Lemansky."

* * *

Sam researches the entire ride to LA. They'd actually been close to the Cali/Nevada boarder – "Sin City, Sammy! If I'm goin' down, I'm goin' there first!" – so the ride to LA was decently brief. Over the sounds of "Enter Sandman," Dean could hear the clacking of Sam's keyboard.

"So, tell me about this guy," Dean finally says as they enter the Farmington district of Los Angeles.

Sam glances to the side, then back to the google pages he pulled up. "Curtis Lemansky, 43. Former Los Angeles police officer. Killed on March 21st of this year, died from massive trauma caused by a grenade being dropped to his lap. They don't know who did it. Uh, thing is is that he was on the run when he died."

"On the run?"

"Yea. He was getting arrested for possession and intent to sell heroin. He ran before they could arrest him. Um, he was denied his police funeral and all of the cops he worked with were prevented from attending his funeral, it looks like. And – oh, wow, they dragged his name through the mud. This guy, Aceveda, used him as an example." Sam blinks, frowning at the screen.

"Huh, the IAD officer on his case went on record saying detective Lemansky was a 'good man who was dragged down by his associates. He did not deserve what happened to him or the people he was damned for knowing.' Considering how hard this guy apparently went after him, that's a little surprising." Sam glances at Dean again, a "is this guy serious? alright, then" look on his face.

Dean shrugs. Cops made no sense.

"Where's this cemetery?"

Sam rattles off the name and vague directions towards it, courtesy of MapQuest.

Ten minutes later, they pull into the parking lot, exiting the car together. Dean unlocks the trunk and grabs his sawed off, tossing Sam his. Sam grabs the container of salt and a gallon of gasoline as well, just in case. They still weren't sure if this was a real hunt or not.

Finding Lemansky's grave was surprisingly hard, considering the size of the cemetery. Rows upon rows of tombstones stood guard over the dead. Finally, after what felt like hours, it wasn't finding his name, but rather finding _Lemansky_ himself that led them to it. Dean halts mid-step, holding up his arm to stop Sam. Both watch Lemansky warily, the man – ghost! – sitting peacefully on top of his headstone, legs rocking back and forth, the heels of his sneakers thumping against the stone. After a long moment, Lemansky looks up and he's in surprisingly good shape for the ghost of a man who died viciously.

"Hey," Lemansky calls, nodding his head to them.

Sam blinks and shares a look at Dean. He steps towards him, heedless of Dean's swearing. "You Curtis Lemansky?" He asks. The ghost looks exactly like the photo in the obituary – young looking for a man in his 40's, tall and built with a headful of bright blonde hair. His clothes were blood stained and torn, but his body was intact, which was a good thing as far as Dean was concerned. He had a kind face, his smile easy as he nods to Sam, but Dean had long since learned not to judge something by its appearance. He lets the ghost see his shotgun.

"Lem," Lemansky corrects. "You can call me Lem. You guys here about me not, ah, moving on?"

"You know you're dead, then?" Sam asks cautiously.

Lemansky – Lem – shrugs his shoulders. "I knew I was dead when I was dying."

Dean hides a flinch – that meant the poor son of a bitch didn't die instantly. _Shit_.

"You know you have to move on, though, right?" Sam approaches Lem, moving slowly as if approaching a growling dog. Lem obviously notices this and looks a little amused.

"If you guys are worried about me going crazy and attacking people, I'm not. I've seen that and I sure as hell don't want that." He leans his head back, looking up at the dark sky. A full moon is out, the pale-white light illuminating the cemetery. "I'm just waiting."

Dean tightens his hold on his shotgun as he finally speaks, "Waiting for who?"

A shadow of something dark crosses the ghost's face. "A guy. A friend. My brother." He lowers his head, gaze on the grass below him. "I thought so, anyway." Lem runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it up more than it already was. "He's the guy who killed me," he explains and huffs out a bitter laugh. "One of my best friends dropped a fucking grenade on me and left me to die after he hands me a sandwich. Nice, huh?"

Now Sam's looking wary. "Are you gonna..."

"What, kill him?" Lem looks their way, his mouth in a half smile. He shakes his head. "No need. I'm over it."

"Seriously? Your best friend _murders_ you and you're okay with it?" Dean demands incredulously. There's no way this guy was serious. He's half tempted to turn to Sam and just say fuck it, burn this guy _now_.

Lem rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. "Of course I'm not 'okay' with it," he scoffs in disgust. "But Shane already fucked himself up enough. Besides, no matter how much I hate him, I could never hate him more than he hates himself. Speaking of." He looks over Dean and Sam's shoulders, focusing on something behind them.

The Winchester's turn, shotguns held up. Behind them is a dark haired, balding man in his 40's, face splattered with the blood from an obvious bullet wound to the temple. Suicide, clearly. He's not looking at Sam and Dean, though. He has eyes for Lemansky only.

"Lem," the man breathes in a thickly southern accented voice, his face white as a sheet. "What...?" He takes an aborted step towards them. His form flickers twice. "I'm dead?"

Lem slips down from the headstone, walking towards the other ghost. Like Shane, his form flickers so one moment he's at the grave, the next past the Winchesters and in front of the other ghost. "Hey, Shane," he greets quietly. Sam and Dean's eyes widen. _This_ was Lem's killer?

Shane's face crumbles and he collapses to the ground, harsh sobs ripping from his mouth. "Oh, God," he gasps, alternating from looking up at Lem and hiding his face in shame. "Oh, God, Lem, I'm so sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Christ, man, I'm so _sorry_!"

Lem stands in front of him, hands on his hips. He stares down at Shane impassively. When Shane's sobs eventually subside, he says, "You're an asshole, Shane." Shane's breath hitches. "You stupid _fucking hick_, I trusted you. God _damnit_, Shane!" Lem's voice steadily rose, anger cracking it now. Dean exhales, seeing his breath mist in front of his mouth. Then, just as quickly as it came, Lem's anger leaves him, the ghost's shoulders slumping beneath the weight of his pain. Quietly, he finishes, "You should have trusted me."

Shane presses a hand to his mouth, nodding his head as he muffles his cries. "I know. God, I know. I'm so sorry, man. I'd give anything – _anything_ to take it back."

"Yea." Lem sighs and crouches in front of Shane. He grabs Shane beneath his chin and forces the other ghost to look at him. "It's time to go, Shane. You and me? We can't stay."

"Why?"

"Because." Lem stands, pulling Shane to his feet. He glances back at Sam and Dean, giving them a brief nod. He turns back to Shane. "Because we can't. Trust me."

Shane nods his head jerkily. "Okay," he says, rushed. He wants to – _has_ to trust Lem this time. Just time one last time. He gasps suddenly. "Mara, Jackson... I..."

Fresh pain clouds Lem's face, then he nods tightly. "Yea, Shane. They're at peace."

"I had – I had to keep us together. I couldn't let Vic–"

"I know, Shane." His mouth twitches into something that might have been a grin on any other day. "You know how many Reapers asses I had to threaten to kick to get them to let me bring you? I'm practically Death's bitch now."

Shakily, Shane asks him, "Where am I going?" _Heaven or Hell?_ is the unspoken, barely thought question.

Lem shrugs, smiling sadly. "I don't know, man," he confesses gently. By now, all of the anger he had held against Shane seems to have left him, his face and smile serene. "But I'll take you there myself. You won't go alone."

"Okay." Shane's voice is a whisper now, his word nearly torn away in the soft wind that blew around them. "Okay," he repeats. "Let's go."

Reaching out, Lem takes a hold on Shane's arm and pulls the other man into a hug, one Shane readily returns, grasping onto Lem tightly. _Like a brother_, Dean realizes. _Like me and Sammy._

The two fade away in a flash of golden-white light. The brothers shield their eyes against it and Dean feels Sam gripping his sleeve. When the light fades, he sees Sam looking at him, tears in his eyes. _I'm not letting you go_, his eyes say.

Dean looks away, back to Lem's headstone.

_Curtis Lemansky  
July 14, 1963 – March 21, 2006  
Beloved friend and brother_

* * *

Hm. Shorter than I thought it would be. Confession, I don't actually remember what Lem's headstone said, if it said anything. But this is what fanfic is for. :D (Also? My math? Lem might have been 42 when he died. But I suck at math and will let one of you do it for me) This ended up a lot more Lem/Shane centered than Sam/Dean, which was, sadly, not my intention. Night, all!


End file.
